"Another! Oho! Aha! Another—truly this is gallantry! In my ear, I beg, whisper the name."
"The name? There's only one woman's name in the world," cried Sir Charles, dramatically, a little overbalanced with the sangaree. "Deborah! Deborah! Deborah! 'Tis she, the fairest petticoat in the colony. D'ye hear?"
"I've heard that she was dangerous," responded Rockwell, chuckling with interest. "But is it true, is it possible, Charlie, that you are bewitched enough by this young—hum—Pomona—by this young Pomona, to be indifferent to the more glittering charms of Miss Trevor?"
Sir Charles sat him down in a chair and sighed. It was a true love-sigh, such as there could be no mistaking in those days. "I love her to distraction," was his inadequate observation.
"Now I wonder," reflected the rector, aloud, "I wonder if, in such case, distraction and marriage are terms synonymous?" He lifted his head, scratched his large neck delicately with his finger-nail, and regarded the young man from that height with humorous serenity.
"Devil take me—how can I, George? They expect me to take the other—Virginia. And there's the dower—and my aunt's favor—and my own dependence—and, egad, I don't know!"
"Then you won't marry her, eh?"
Fairfield grew a little red. "I must. She's a kind of cousin, too, you know."
"Oh, tut! A difficult matter. Hum!—Ha!—When—a—you are prepared to assist me in getting Mistress Lucy, my services, or, rather, one of them, is at yours."
"The marriage? Oh—St. Quentin 'ud do that. He—"